


Colorless

by rathernotmyname



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, Elliot is a sad boy who needs hugs, Gen, Happy Birthday Friend :), Lightly Sad, Pre-Canon, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, The Author Likes Herself Some Descriptions, written in two hours while staring out my window and listening to vol. 3 of the MR soundtrack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26526646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathernotmyname/pseuds/rathernotmyname
Summary: The first time Elliot picks a lock that is neither virtual nor the door to some broom closet at Darlene’s school, he's 21 and (not) alone.Written for Elliot Alderson's (and Sam Esmail's) birthday.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson & Mr. Robot
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Colorless

**Author's Note:**

> **Please heed the tags.**
> 
> Author's note:  
> I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING HOSTED OR REPOSTED ON ANY UNOFFICIAL APPS OR WEBSITES OTHER THAN ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN WITHOUT MY APPROVAL, PARTICULARLY APPS WITH AD REVENUE AND SUBSCRIPTION SERVICES.

The first time Elliot picks a lock that is neither virtual nor the door to some broom closet at Darlene’s school, his hands are jittering with nerves as if they’re going to come loose from his arms and scrabble away. The mental image is grotesque and, if he’s being honest with himself, nothing extraordinary coming from his brain, but it still makes him feel vaguely nauseous.

With a soft _cling_ the tool in his right hand falls to the ground again. Elliot quickly places his knee above it where he squats, lets go of his other tool and rests his forehead against the door. The cold metal of it does nothing to calm him, but it reminds him of what lies on the other side.

Elliot breathes.

Throwing a look to the side, he catches his reflection in the windowpane, New York’s rooftops behind it.

_Colorless_ , that’s what Darlene calls him when she’s particularly fed up with him. Staring at his reflection as he is, he can’t say that she’s wrong. He’s 21 years old today, and still as lanky and awkward as with 15. He had wanted to shave his hair off back then, but Darlene had cried for his curls so much that he had left it long at the top. The horrible resulting haircut got him a slap from their mother and a forced visit at the barber, who had saved what was left of his hair and cut it into a fake-mohawk. Their mom hated it, but he had grown to like it (and learned how to cut it himself).

And there it is, short dark strands and fuzz at the sides and back of his head. Dark grey sweater, black jeans, white sneakers. Round eyes, pale and small-pupiled from the morning sun shining through the window stare back at him. Darlene doesn’t like it when he calls himself insane, but he can’t think of anything else when he looks into his own eyes. Crazy movie villains never have beautiful eyes. Always pale eyes, yellowed eyes, angry eyes, apathetic eyes.

He could go far down the villain checklist without missing a beat, _check, check, check_ , except for the very end of the list.

_What’s your evil masterplan to run the world in your favor, Mr. Alderson?_

Ha. If only.

His reflection rubs a hand through its hair. Then the other. Big hands, pale hands, colorless hands. He cut his nails down as far as they would go, and, to his own surprise, kicked his nail-biting habit. He wishes he could cut down his brain so he could kick his drug habit, too.

A cold draft emerges from beneath the door, touching his jeans-clad knees. Today’s outfit is the most colorful he has ever dressed since he was five. Probably. His memory is not trustworthy, when it comes to that. Black had somewhat become his favorite color, after his… well.

It’s oddly fitting, because he never really did have time to get over his death. He feels as if he is trapped in a perpetual state of mourning. But maybe that’s just what depression is like.

He wishes it was exactly like in the teenage drama movies, which Darlene only watched when she wanted to punish herself. A lot of pretty crying and comforting others while the main character ignored their own needs, and everything was reliably cured when they took of her glasses, wore their hair open and became Prom queen.

And Elliot? Elliot feels as if he unlearned how to smile, he feels like shit and makes Darlene angry and then feels like shit for making her angry and then feels angry because she got angry at him for feeling like shit.

And more often than not he’s sitting on his bed, staring at one spot for three hours until his eyes burn and he realizes that he can’t remember what he did in the hours before sitting down.

(He didn’t go to prom. Darlene didn’t talk to him for a week when he wouldn’t go with her, either. But she had forgiven him, eventually.)

The sun vanishes behind the clouds, sapping the meagre rest of color out of Elliot’s reflection. Boyish smooth, sandalwood-colored skin becomes grey in the dull light.

Colorless.

His knees feel cold and his left foot fell asleep, but his hands don’t feel like they will crawl away any time soon. Elliot picks up his tools and goes back to work.

As he works away, squinting inside the lock, he can’t help but sigh when the sun reemerges and bathes the short hallway in blueish yellow light. It doesn’t help against the cold, but that doesn’t matter. It’s only colder behind the door.

A click. Elliot sits back, curiously thrown off-balance by his success, even though it worked so many times before. But this is different. This moment is defining. He is officially breaking and entering, even though there isn’t anything he wants to steal on the other side. He turns his head, back to the window. This time his reflection stays ignored; he walks closer, closer. Finally so close that his nose is pressed to the glass like that of a bored child on the bus.

New York’s skyline extends below him. He’s quite high up, really. If he was scared of heights, he wouldn’t have dared to come within six feet of the window. He has to get used to the height, though. He probably won’t be able to experience again what comes behind the door. There won’t be a next time.

Coming here had been a sudden decision, really. He hadn’t planned it, he just left his shabby apartment this morning, walked aimlessly around the city center, had crouched down to pet a dog that was leashed to a pole in front of a grocery store, then looked up and entered the office building next to it, foregoing the elevator and taking the stairs, going up, up, up, up, up, until he was completely out of breath and didn’t encounter any more employees on their way to their cubicles.

At some point, the stairs ended in front of a single metal door that wasn’t locked. Behind it was another flight of stairs, dusty from neglect, and behind them was a hallway with a big window on one side and another door at the end.

Perhaps it’s better that he didn’t plan to come here, he thinks. It means that he didn’t have any time to second-guess. It also means that Darlene doesn’t know about it, even though she will inevitably find out about it later.

Elliot looks over his shoulder. The hallway lays there, grey and unassuming, housing only a few spiders to observe him.

He turns back to the opened door. _Well_ , he thinks in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own, _you proved yourself you could do it_. _What now? We should go home and tell Darlene._

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “We should…” He falters.

We?

He blinks. When he blinks again, the door is open. The wind pulls at his clothes and hair, stroking cold fingers over his face, neck and ears. Elliot shudders and walks towards the door, legs stiff as if he’s moved by strings like a marionette.

_We should go home_ , the voice in his head says again, but it’s softer than before. Because it is a voice in his head, and Elliot knows the voice, but it’s _his_ head, _he’s_ in control. If he doesn’t want to hear it, then he can’t hear it. That’s how it works.

_We should…_ Elliot thinks, and steps out the door.

Gravel crunches under his shoes as he enters the roof. It’s your average roof, flat, metal floor and bird shit, with big, boxy fans standing to his left.

He walks to the end of the roof. There’s no handrail, no safety fence, nothing. Just flat roof and then 950 feet freefall.

New York is all around him, the city that never sleeps. The billboards don’t seem so overwhelmingly bright from up where he is. Just another part of the landscape. Just as grey and unwelcoming as the rest. Just as colorless.

He steps a little closer to the edge. He imagines having a parachute and flying from one roof to the next like Ethan Hunt. He would probably shit his pants. A dry smile grows on his face.

**_NO_**.

The sudden clarity of the voice startles him. “Of course not,” Elliot says out loud, even though he’s not sure if he means it.

He steps back anyway, walking back to the door and sitting on the floor next to the doorframe.

“That was fucking illegal,” he informs no one and leans back, content.

“Hell yeah,” someone to his right says. Elliot doesn’t bat an eyelid. “You can tell Darlene that she’s the ‘goody-two-shoes’ for once.”

“Not for long, I guess. She’s gonna do her best to outperform me.” Elliot can see the owner of the voice from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t bother turning his head.

“Of course she will,” the voice sighs. “Though… as long as she doesn’t commit arson, I say we shouldn’t interfere.”

Elliot turns his head and sees roof and exhaust fans. The sun shining through the clouds makes them sparkle, dew and sunbeams creating a small, colorful rainbow at the very top of each scratched, flaky metal box.

Elliot breathes. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Elliot's and Sam's birthday yesterday. Not outlined at all (as usual), just 1,5k words of stream of consciousness. To be honest, I'm very okay with how it turned out (my very first MR fic! Yay)! I'll definitely write more for MR in the future.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> (Also crossposted on my tumblr @rathernotmyname)


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